If You Believe
Page 9

Mariah froze. Fire crawled up her throat and fanned across her cheeks. Humiliation burned in the pit of her stomach.
She exhaled slowly and forced herself to look at him. "Are you here for a purpose?"
"Is that a philosophical question?"
Her eyebrow arched upward. "That's a large word for you, Mr. Stone."
He grinned. "I'm full of surprises."
Ignore him. "I'm sure you are. Now, what do you want?"
He held out an apple. "Red or mostly red?"
She studied it with a practiced eye. "Red."
"This one?"
Suddenly she understood. Her eyes narrowed. "Mr. Stone, are you toying with me?"
A slow, deliberate smile curved his lips. "Miss Throckmorton, when I'm toying with you, you'll know it."
The illicit, completely improper remark caused a red-hot spark of response. A shiver worked itself down Mariah's stiff back. She swallowed dryly. "I hope you aren't suggesting you may toy with me in the future."
"I don't know you well enough to say."
She pushed the damp hair away from her face and tried to smile. "Honesty. What an unusual approach."
"I'm always honest."
She snorted. She'd heard that one before—and from a man remarkably like the one standing in front of her. "Sure."
He shrugged, as if he didn't care a whit if she believed him—and somehow that made her believe him.
She studied him, intrigued in spite of herself. "You always tell the truth? Even if it hurts people, or makes someone think badly of you?"
"Sometimes the truth hurts. That's life." "That makes you a very dangerous man, Mr. Stone." He shook his head. "Only if you expect something from me.
Fortunately, no one does. So what about you, Miss Throckmorton. Are you honest?"
She almost answered, but didn't. She thought suddenly about the dowdy spinster in brown, hiding behind a white picket fence. "No," she said, and the quiet confession surprised her, "I suppose I'm not."
He smiled and walked away. At the pump, he paused and turned back around.
"Marian?"
"Yes?"
"A real liar would have said yes."
She couldn't help herself. She laughed.
Grinning, he yanked his hat down and walked away without another word. Mariah watched him leave.
It wasn't until later, much later, that she realized he'd called her Mariah.
Rass kneeled awkwardly and laid a hand on the carved granite of Greta's headstone.
The stone felt smooth and cold and comforting.
Sighing, he leaned back against the giant oak tree that shaded his wife's grave from the hot sun. Above his head, colorful leaves rustled in the late afternoon breeze.
Every now and then one dropped, twisting and floating as it fell to the ground.
Strands of sunlight shot through the branches and hit the grassy earth, moving and dancing in a ceaseless golden pattern.
Hi, Greta.
The breeze picked up, ruffled his hair in a caress. He felt her presence in the wind.
And in the sun and the rain and the silence. She was here with him, sitting invisibly beside him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and took her hand. In the emptiness of his own fist, he felt her warmth and it gave him comfort.
From his perch on the grassy knoll, he stared down at the farm. Mariah was standing in front of the wash-house, doing the laundry. At her feet was a wicker basket; to her left, the clothesline, now empty. Soon it would be filled by billowy garments snapping in the breeze.
A quiet sense of sadness pervaded him at the thought. So much the same as every Saturday for sixteen years ...
Ah, Greta, what are we going to do with her?
He coughed hard. When it was over, he sagged backward. God, he was tired, and there was a persistent, nagging pain in his left shoulder.
It was hell to get old.
Lately he was tired and sore and coughing all the time. He even woke up tired.
Down the hill, a movement caught his eye.
His gaze followed it. Mad Dog was walking toward Mariah. He stopped at the washbasin and held out an apple. Then a second one. A few moments later, he heard the unmistakable—incredible—sound of Mariah's laughter.
Rass sat up straighter. "Did you hear that, liebchen! She laughed." He shook his head. "Our little girl laughed."
The sound recalled a dozen hazy, treasured memories of Mariah's childhood. She used to laugh all the time. She'd been so passionate about life, so spirited. It had taken all of Greta's strength to keep up with her headstrong daughter.
And now, here she was laughing again. For the first time in years.
Rass whistled softly. Maybe he'd done the right thing after all. Maybe Mad Dog Stone was exactly what Mariah needed.
She laughed.
He shook his head. It might not be earth-shattering, might not be a wedding, but, by God, it was a start.
Chapter Six
Marian wrung out Mad Dog's now white shirt and slapped it over the top rung of the wooden clothes bar. Fat, clear droplets slid down the sleeves and plopped on the golden grass. Beside and below the shirt, petticoats, shirts, pantalets, and sheets shimmied in the cool breeze.
She stepped back, blinking at the eye-splitting field of white. A tired sigh escaped her lips as she stretched her aching, chapped fingers.
Lord, she was exhausted. Saturdays were the worst day of the week for her.
Carrying bucket after bucket of boiling water from the stove to the washtub, turning the tub's wooden-handled crank for endless, back-breaking hours, wringing out dozens of heavy sheets and feeding them through the Economic Starcher. And she wasn't even finished. On Monday she'd spend countless hours hunched over a hot iron.
Just the thought of ironing made her feel weak. And hot.
And ready for a swim.
Sighing, she dipped her hands into the now cool rinse water and splashed her face.
When she opened her eyes, Mad Dog Stone was standing directly in front of her.
He looked as tired as she felt.
"Christ," he said, sopping his brow with his sleeve, "what a day. It was hotter than shit for fall."
Mariah managed a weak smile. She was too tired to argue with him over his language—or anything else. "Picking's hot work."
"So's laundry."
She smoothed the damp hair from her face with fingers that shook with fatigue. She knew he expected a response, but she was too tired to make the effort. Even an insipid nod was beyond her.
Lord, that swim would have felt good today. ...
"Well, if you're finished with me, I'm gonna lay down for a while."
Mariah perked up slightly. "Really?"
He swiped his brow with his sleeve again. "Yeah. Unless ..."
"Unless what?"
He tried to look casual, but didn't quite manage it. "Unless you'd let me take a real bath?"
Mariah felt a stunning sense of relief. She couldn't have concocted a better plan.
"Certainly, Mr. Stone. A shower and a rest would be perfect for you." In a resurgence of energy, she spun around and bounded up to the house, racing down the shadowy hallway for the bathing room.
For a moment, she was alone. She grabbed two thick Turkish towels from the washstand's cupboard. As she reached for the soap, she heard him come up behind her. He didn't say anything, but she felt his gaze, hot and pointed, on her back. She froze, knowing she'd need an excuse for the second towel. She couldn't think of a single one.
Mad Dog stared down at Miss Prim and Proper. She was burrowing through the towel closet as if it held the crown jewels. And muttering.
Now, one thing he knew: Mariah Throckmorton was not a muttering kind of gal.
"Something wrong, Miss Throckmorton?"
She popped to her feet and slowly turned around. "W-What do you think of the bathing room?"
For the first time, Mad Dog noticed his surroundings. "Holy shit .. ."
She flinched at his foul language. "How . .. eloquent, Mr. Stone."
Mad Dog didn't respond. He couldn't. He was stunned by the unexpected grandeur of the room. He'd heard, of course, of houses that had bathing rooms like this, but that was back East. And he'd never actually seen one.
It was big, as big as an ordinary bedroom. Forest green wallpaper covered the top half of the wall, melting into a boldly carved mahogany wainscoting. The burgundy tile floor gleamed like the flat facet of a huge, single ruby. Atop it lay a green and burgundy and black Oriental carpet with golden tassels. The faint scent of gas wafted from the brass-sconced fixtures along the wall. Ovals of shimmering light slid down the dark walls and puddled on the elegant floor.
And the bath. Mad Dog let out a soft, appreciative whistle. It was a long way from the town water pump he usually used.
The shower/bathtub combination was completely encased in carved mahogany.
Within the dark wood, porcelain glistened like an open oyster shell, clean and smooth and inviting. A row of six shining brass knobs was the only adornment on the otherwise flawless wood.
"I know it's extravagant ... but my mother loved her baths." Mariah's voice was soft and wistful. It pulled Mad Dog in, made him want to hear more.
He tried to find the right words. "She's . . ."
"Passed away last winter," she said quietly.
"I'm sorry ..." Immediately he regretted the pat, too easy words.
She shook her head and looked up at him. Though she tried to hide it, sorrow clung to her, a wispy veil that softened her gaze. "My father's razor is in the commode's top drawer. I ... wish you'd use it, but you don't have to."
He studied her. She was asking a favor of him, not demanding or judging or condemning. Simply asking. The moment seemed suddenly fragile, worth saving.
"Thanks, I will."
She handed him a towel and a bar of Dirt Killer soap. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to your privacy."
She started to leave.
For some crazy reason, he didn't want her to go. "Wait—"
Slowly she turned back to him. "What?"
He had nothing to say to her; he'd acted without thinking. He glanced at the towel clutched to her chest and said the first thing that came to mind. "You want the shower first?"
"No!" The word burst from her, then she laughed shakily. "No, thanks. You go ahead. I'll wait."
Mariah felt his sharp, penetrating gaze on her face. She shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, I'd best go." Before he could respond, she turned and hurried from the room, closing the door behind her.
In the empty hallway, she sagged against the closed door for a heartbeat. Then she smiled. She'd done it.
She hugged the warm towel and barreled from the house. Outside, the still hot sun hit her hard in the face, but this time the heat was welcome. Although she was dying to run, she forced herself to walk across the yard. At the barn, she paused and glanced back. Mad Dog was nowhere to be seen.
Grinning, she dashed around the barn and raced through the fragrant orchard. Deep in the back pasture, she came to a bend in the river that created a still, green pool.
For as long as Mariah could remember, this place had been her refuge. As a child, full of mischief and energy, she'd come here to play, to splash around in the water, to laugh and yell, to be free. Now, as an adult, this place was her escape from a dull and ordinary life. From the detached, emotionless woman she tried so hard to be.